


Saudade

by morgay



Series: There's No Place Like Home [2]
Category: Lost
Genre: Angst, Bad Parenting, Childhood Trauma, Closure, Depression, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roughly Set From: Live Together Die Alone Pt 2 to The New Man In Charge, Schizophrenia, Set during seasons 3-6, Smoking, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgay/pseuds/morgay
Summary: Walt hadn’t ever seen life beyond the Island, but alas, he and his father were the first to leave. He tried to fit in, tried to motivate himself for the future, but it always seemed like his heart belonged backthere.





	1. memories of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> original title was "peripeteia"
> 
> i have a playlist i listened to when writing this so ,, feel free to listen along!
> 
> [lofi spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/morganusmorgan/playlist/4KUFr9emnzYWmtKMYx0vk2?si=6ooBD8YCTwSgYIX2Oi_12A)
> 
> thx and enjoy reading !!

When they crashed on the Island, Walt found it hard to focus on anything _but_ the Island. There was something about it that rooted him into its presence, pulling his motivations and feelings down in tendrils. To be honest, he’d never thought much about life away from the Island, but alas, he and his father were the first to leave.

Walt would never forget that day. It had been spent primarily in the Others’s camp, and the strange black woman had woken him up. “The time is soon,” she’d said, looking grave, before leaving him to his thoughts. _They’re going to kill me,_ was all he could think, and he remembered the feeling of the wind bursting by his body as he’d sprinted away from the tent.

Before he could make it out of sight into the foliage, a heavy weight crushed his body into the ground, completely immobilizing him. He’d screamed and shouted and clawed for freedom, but when the cool metal of the gun had pressed into his temple, Walt closed his mouth.

He’d been shoved back into the tent and guarded by a tall, bulky man they called Pickett. Walt was fed a few scraps of food but buried them in the dirt in fear of being poisoned. The sky grew dark and blankets of rain fell upon the land, creating a light mist that hovered over the ground. Walt had crawled back into the bundle of blankets, attempting to warm his cold, shivering body.

He slept some time before the uprooting of the tent jerked him awake. The strange woman guided him into the middle of camp, where the bright ball of sun washed away the puddles of water on the rocky ground. The Others began their journey away from the outcrop of land and into the rainforest, eventually stopping at a wooden dock.

Walt couldn’t believe his eyes when he noticed the small boat. Was he leaving the island? Is that what the woman had meant before? He hadn’t allowed himself much time to think of escape, but now the possibilities seemed so real and so endless.

Picket had roughly gripped Walt’s arm and practically dragged him to the boat. “Get inside and stay inside, boy,” he’d drawled, pointing to a small crawlspace under the seat. “And don’t look until your dad gets on.” Walt was frozen in shock and his entire being tingled at the prospect of being reunited with his father. That being said, he grudgingly complied, squishing his body underneath the seat and staying put for at least half an hour.

Eventually, Walt heard voices — _familiar_ voices — and it took everything inside for him not to poke his head up and observe what was happening. He heard the frantic footsteps along the wooden deck and tilted his head to the side, and there his father had been.

Walt had truly never felt so relieved in his entire life. It was like this huge weight had been propped from his shoulders and thrown to the side, because his dad was back. They were reunited, and they would be okay, and—

And the people he’d grown to know on the Island were on their knees in front of the Others’s leader, who Walt had recognized as Henry Gale, but that wasn’t really his name, was it? To be fair, it didn’t matter now, because Michael was leading the boat _away_ from the dock, and Walt saw the terrified and betrayed look in all of the group’s eyes as they left.

It was like a blow to the stomach, because they had _left_. Left their friends to be kidnapped and tortured or possibly even die, just because they wanted to leave the Island. Walt hadn’t known what to feel on that day, as the ocean carried salt in the breeze that tinged his tongue. He didn’t know what to think when they landed on a populated island, or when they sold the Others’s boat, or when they boarded a ship back to New York.

But, most of all, he didn’t know how to feel when Michael spilled his secrets.

“I killed them,” his father had uttered in the darkness of the ship’s cabin, belly-up on the bed as the boat rocked with the choppy waves that splashed up against the sides. 

Walt had felt his blood turn to chips of ice, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. “What?”

“I killed them.” Michael lifted his torso and sat up in the bed, staring forward toward the closed bedroom door. “I did it for you. You know that, right?”

“K-_Killed_?” Walt began to shake and pressed himself into the wall, curling his fingers into the hard mattress of the bed. “Dad, what are you talking about? Killed- killed who?”

Michael turned his head toward Walt. “Ana Lucia and Libby. I didn’t mean to kill Libby. I didn’t. But I had to save you. You understand. It was for you. Everything I did was for you. You have to believe me.” The deep-rooted guilt in his voice was unmistakable, but Walt couldn’t push the feelings of disgust aside.

He didn’t sleep that night. 

The morning dapples of light brought New York with them. The sun had been hanging high in the sky before his father awoke, but was promptly covered by a thick sheet of clouds. They waited in the room until the announcements signaled their arrival, and pushed on their jackets for the cold wind over the sea. Walt followed his father outside and off of the ship, to the streets, and into a cab. He was shaking.

“We’re going to your grandma’s,” Michael had said next to Walt in the back of the yellow cab. “Hope that’s okay with you for now, little man.”

It was. Really, anything to get away from his father was alright. Walt didn’t respond, which made Michael lose his temper, but he found he didn’t care much for his dad’s dramatics. _I didn’t kill two people._ The thought alone made him sick. 

They slept in a run-down motel for the night and resumed their state-wide road-tripping across New York. Cooperstown came faster than Walt had anticipated, which was good. He had to tell his grandmother everything — maybe then he’d be safe, away from his father.

“Walt.” Michael pursed his lips as he looked out the window. “Look, little man.” He quieted his voice and ducked his head back toward his son. “We’re gonna have to lie.”

“Lie?” Walt had echoed stupidly. But... why?

“Yeah.” His father frowned. “You know— new names, probably. I’m sorry, buddy. No one can know where we came from. They can’t know what I did on the island, even if it was for you. For us.” 

Michael set his hand on his son’s shoulder. Walt jerked back and pressed himself into the corner of the cab, shaking his head. “Don’t touch me,” he whispered. 

“What?”

Walt met Michael’s soft, broken expression with a cold and steely one. “You k-” He looked up at the driver and at the thick window between them, effectively blocking out noise from either side. “You did something bad, Dad. How... I... I don’t even want to be around you anymore.”

“Walt- look, wait, listen—” Michael scrambled for words. “Come on, it- I told you, it was for _you_. I’m not a bad person. Don’t you know that? Huh?”

“You _are_ a bad person.” Walt set his jaw and glared at his father before turning his head away. “I’m telling Grandma everything. You’ll go to jail!”

Walt could feel Michael’s shock practically radiating off of his body. He screwed his eyes shut and leaned his head against the window, hoping that his father wouldn’t say anything else. 

Unfortunately, he did. “Walt..” His voice had been low and raspy and almost angry. “I did it for you. Please, man- you can’t tell anyone.”

“I can, and I _will_.” He pushed his teeth and ground them together, promising himself that he would report Michael. He would report his dad, maybe to Grandma first, then they could move on from there. What else could he do? Let his father get away with his crimes?

The rest of the trip was quiet. They made it to Cooperstown, winding through the bustling streets, before stopping in front of a small and dainty brown-decked house. Walt stirred from his sleep and wiped his eyes, looking at the house. 

Michael wasn’t looking at him. “I brought you here when you were a baby,” he’d whispered. 

Walt frowned. There was a sudden compulsion to keep everything a secret - like the Island was telling him something. The trickle of a silent whisper in his ear, the twisting of his stomach.... 

“Let’s go,” Walt breathed. He opened the door of the cab and slipped out, stretching as his feet hit the asphalt ground. A pale orange sky spread across the horizon, pink and yellow fingers streaking out toward the clouds. Walt looked on for a moment before Michael hesitantly called out to him after paying the cab driver.

“Look...” Walt tensed when Michael dropped his hand on his shoulder, face a mix between terrified and determined. “If... if you want to tell Grandma, or the police, then I understand.” Walt nearly reeled back from shock. “I.. I deserve it. Maybe you should just do it.”

Walt didn’t have an answer to that. He stared at his father, mind rumbling with thoughts and ideas and grievances – how was he supposed to turn his father in? Maybe.... even if it had been a terrible thing... it had been for a good reason? 

He hadn’t had much time to dwell. Michael had led them to the front door of the house, knocked, and waited. Grandma had opened it, words already flying – “I don’t want anything you’re selling” – then promptly shut her mouth. She’d looked between both of them like a deer caught in headlights then cried out, tightly embracing the two.

Walt had been sent up to the front upstairs bedroom. It was a small room, but could fit his belongings and had a bed, so. He’d flopped on the mattress and stared out at the sky, tuning out the conversation between Michael and Grandma. The comforting blanket of sleep soon overtook him, pulling him down into darkness.

He was awoken by the shaking of his shoulder. Grandma peered down at him and smiled softly, sitting next to him on the bed. “Hi, baby,” she whispered, pressing him close into her side. Walt had grudgingly complied to the touch and blinked in confusion. Grandma noticed and hesitated. “Your daddy... he, uh... he said you didn’t want him here. He left.”

It felt like a spectacular weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Walt puffed out a breath of air and felt his hands begin to shake. Grandma eyed him carefully. “Baby,” she murmured, “what... what did he do? Can you tell me?”

Walt didn’t respond. He held his head in his hands and slowly inched away from her, but was pulled back by her free hand. He sighed and looked away. Even if he did want to say anything, which he didn’t anymore, Walt wasn’t sure he could’ve formulated the words or even gotten them past his teeth.

“Well...” Grandma shuffled awkwardly from the silence. “He said you guys were in some kind of plane crash.” Walt stiffened. “Landed on some island in Asia or somethin’... I don’t know what happened to you two, but whatever it is, I’m here now.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled, curling his knees into his chest. “Thanks, Grandma.”

Three weeks later, Walt started school.

It hadn’t been so bad at first. Of course, it’s not like he _wanted_ to go to school, but he knew he’d be able to adapt nonetheless. Still. Spending all of those days on the island had changed him, and he’d grown quite comfortable with the still silence.

School was the exact opposite.

Maybe it had been the town, or the people, or maybe even the neighborhood, but Walt was growing tired. His first day had consisted of the usual, which was being ignored, but Walt found he didn’t mind much. He did his work — at least, everything he had the motivation to do — and listened to the teachers when they told him what to do.

His peers were different. Walt had assumed that 7th grade would be easy and calm but that simply wasn’t the case. It might’ve been the fact that this was the first year of middle school, or maybe because other children his age were idiots.

Nonetheless, Walt found himself drifting further and further away from any sort of social contact. He’d never made any sort of conversation with anyone — hardly even his grandmother — and people avoided him for that. 

Walt had his first nightmare approximately one week after 7th grade started. It had about the Island, he remembered. He’d been walking through the jungle, barefoot, rain sleeting down on the rainforest, splashing water on thick and drooping leaves. He heard whispers, the kinds of whispers that he’d always heard while alone on the Island. Unintelligible, but they were there.

He would take a dark path through the forest and see John Locke there, one eye black and one eye white. He’d silently motion for Walt to follow, ducking inside of a low cave and crawling through. Walt would follow, but take a wrong turn and end up in a huge, glowing cavern. When he turned around, a polar bear would leap out for him, blood staining its muzzle.

It would have black and white eyes, too.

Grandma came and comforted him every time he woke up screaming in the night. He’d shiver against her chest and sob into her shoulder, mumbling apologies and explanations for the things he’d seen. Grandma would simply stroke his hair and tell him that everything would be alright. Sometimes, he slept in bed with her because it felt safer.

Then, the nightmares trickled into reality for the first time. He’d been walking through the hallway, on the way to science, when he’d seen Charlie out of the corner of his eye. “Hey,” Charlie had said through the sea of people, lifting a hand and raising it. His voice echoed through the corridor, and it was the only thing he could hear.

Walt ran as fast as his legs could take him. He threw himself out of the front doors and found a tree to sit under, clouded sky providing a quiet comfort to him. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed, shoulders sagging, because everything _hurt_.

Seeing Charlie like that made Walt think he was crazy. Like, maybe he was only brought to the Island because that’s the only place he’d ever fit in. Here? Back in the real world? He _hated_ it.

Walt shivered in his bundle of clothes and screamed, kicking the ground and turning to smash his fists into the tree. The rough bark cut away at his skin, tearing open his knuckles as he smashed into it, over and over and over again. He staggered to his feet and kicked the tree with all of his might, memories fleeting behind his eyes as he did so. _Vincent, the beach, Locke, the polar bear, the tree he’d hidden inside, the raft, the kidnapping, staying with the Others, going to the dock..._

He didn’t realize someone had pulled him back until he kicked dead air. Walt cried out and his reflexes acted before his mind could, arms flailing wildly. _The Others! They’re taking me again! I have to get away! No! Stop!_ Walt didn’t even know he was speaking out loud.

“No one’s gonna hurt you,” a soft feminine voice said, a hand clutching his shoulder. Walt froze against the touch, tears trickling out of his eyes. He sobbed and sunk to the ground, legs splaying out beneath him. There was clear hesitation before the other person bent down. “Are you okay?”

Walt shook his head.

“Okay.” His eyes were closed, but he could hear someone sit down beside him, the ruffling of the grass tickling his ears. “Do you want to talk to me about it?” A pause. “That looks like it hurts.”

Walt slowly cracked open his eyes and looked down at his bleeding knuckles, trickles of blood dripping down his palms. _Boone, Shannon, Libby, Ana Lucia..._ He yelped and jumped back, desperately trying to make the memories stop. He didn’t want them anymore. He didn’t!

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay — I’m not gonna hurt you.” Walt found small comfort in the voice and felt a deep familiarity in his chest.

He paused, breathing shakily. “I...” Walt rubbed his face, making sure he didn’t look at anything but the darkness behind his eyelids. “I’m just remembering stuff I don’t want to.”

“I understand what that feels like.” The woman shifted slightly but stayed in her spot a few feet away from Walt. “Maybe if you tell me about the memories, we can work something out together.”

Walt shook his head quickly. “My dad said I can’t tell anyone,” he mumbled.

“Your dad?”

A slow nod.

“Honey, your dad is just trying to protect you.”

Walt’s blood ran cold, trickles of ice filtering through his veins. “Wh- what?” He lifted his gaze to the woman and reeled back in shock, breath growing heavier.

It was his _mother_.

“No!” he screamed, staggering to his feet and stumbling away. “Get away from me!”

“Walt.” He began to run, ignoring the voice, and fled from the campus. He could feel his legs growing tired, breath burning in the back of his throat, but he didn’t care. Why was he seeing people from the Island? Dead people? His _Mom_?

He must’ve run at least a mile before he collapsed in the middle of the sidewalk. Walt puffed out a raspy breath and rolled on his side, the blades of grass crunching under his weight. He curled in on himself and cried again. Why was this happening to him? Why were these people showing up? And what was with the nightmares? He knew it all had to be connected somehow, but.... he couldn’t think of the _how_.

A hand touched his shoulder and Walt cried out, instinctively jerking back. He backed away on his bleeding palms and shielded his face. “Get away!” he screamed. “Go! You’re dead! I don’t want to talk to you!”

“Son—” A rough, grated male voice halted Walt in his tracks. That didn’t sound like anyone he knew. He shivered but gained the courage to open his eyes, peering up with wide eyes at an older man, gray hair flopping over his head. He eyed Walt with worried blue eyes. “You lost or somethin’?”

_Lost..._ Walt almost laughed. He wasn’t lost, not anymore. He probably never would be again, as long as he was away from the Island. 

“Kid.” The man bent down. “You gotta talk to me. I can give you a ride home, if you want.”

“Just...” Walt shook his head slowly. “To- to school. Please.” He noticed the older man’s gaze flick down to Walt’s bloody hands. “It’s..” He tucked his hands close to his chest. It didn’t even matter. His fists hardly hurt.

“Better see a doctor, then,” the man sighed, standing up tall and offering a hand. Walt ignored the help and lifted himself to his feet on his own, swaying slightly from dizziness. His whole mouth was dry and it felt like he’d licked a pile of sand. His throat and chest burned with a throbbing ache, and he suddenly realized how thirsty he was.

Ignoring his discomfort, Walt followed the man and slipped into the passenger seat of the small white car, resting his head on the comfortable seat. The man closed his own door and started the engine, frowning. “Where’s your school, kid?”

Walt muttered the name without thought. The man’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s twenty minutes away.” Walt froze. Twenty minutes? How long had he been running? What time was it? He didn’t even know now. He returned a soft shrug and turned his head to look out the window. Whatever. None of it mattered, anyway.

The man hesitated before pulling the car forward, following the street. Lush, green trees flashed by Walt’s vision. He saw a flash of something and then he was back _there_, tendrils of vines hanging from the jungle leaves, claw marks in the wet dirt from the polar bear, scratched bark that curled awkwardly, and then the endless sand of the beach.

“Kid?”

Walt snapped out of his trance and slowly turned to the man. “Y-yeah?” he was able to stutter out.

The guy looked pretty concerned, eyes flicking from Walt’s hands to his eyes to the road then back. “What were you doing so far from school, anyway?”

“Ran,” he mumbled.

“You ran? Why?” He slowed the gas, as if something horrible was suddenly about to happen.

Walt shrugged. “Saw my mom.”

The man made a face. “Your mom?” He chuckled. “What, do you not like her or something?”

He furrowed his brows and met the older man’s gaze. “She’s dead.”

Nothing but silence echoed in Walt’s ears for the rest of the ride. When they made it back to the school, the man hopped out of the car with him. “I’ll take you inside,” he offered. Walt shrugged, not caring all that much.

The two walked through the front doors and the woman at the desk looked up, smiling. “Hello,” she greeted. “What can I do for you today?”

“Oh, um.” The man scratched the back of his head. “I found this kid twenty minutes away, he wanted to be brought back here. He’s bleeding, uh—” He waved his hand. “Is there a principal or anything I could speak to?”

The woman’s eyes widened significantly. “Oh my, of course.” She dialed a number into the phone and, before he knew it, Walt was being led out of the office by a nurse. He spotted one of the assistant principals shaking the man’s hand, but his view was blocked by the wall as they walked through the hallway.

The nurse sat him down in her empty office and frowned, checking his knuckles. She ran a finger down his hand and he trembled. “Does that hurt?”

Walt nodded.

“Okay, here.” The nurse— Mrs. Pinkman, he remembered her name as— slid out of her rolling chair and opened the freezer, wrapping an ice pack in a few paper towels. She returned to Walt’s side and pressed them to his knuckles. “It may sting just because it’s so cold, but you don’t have to worry. That pain will stop in no time.”

The pain wasn’t terrible. He was pretty sure his heart felt heavier most of the time, anyway. When Walt didn’t give a response, the nurse frowned and grudgingly sat back down at her desk. After a few minutes of quiet, the phone rang. Mrs. Pinkman answered it and paused before stepping out of the office, leaving the telephone behind. Walt wondered what was going on. 

Eventually, the same assistant principal Walt had seen earlier stepped into the room, looking serious. “Walt, please come with me,” he said. 

Something was definitely going on. For a moment, Walt wondered if his father had come back, or if something terrible had happened to his grandmother. The thought made him sick. _Please, no._ He was led through a maze of hallways and stopped at the principal’s office. Inside was the counselor and Mrs. Pinkman. 

“Come in.” The principal sat down at his desk and swept his hand to the open chair to the right of the room. Walt hesitantly sat down, leg shaking up and down. He was uncomfortable and just wanted them to get their point across — what had happened? “You may know me as Mr. Sanders, but if not, then I’m one of the lead assistant principals at Harbor High. This wonderful lady—” He motioned toward the counselor— “Is Mrs. Bell. And you know Mrs. Pinkman, our nurse.”

Walt felt like he was folding in on himself and only nodded in response, unsure of what to say.

Mr. Sanders continued. “We aren’t angry or upset, but we want to know why you left school in the middle of a passing period. Would you mind telling us?”

It felt like his throat was closing. Tell them? How could he? Besides, his father had specifically said to _never_ tell anyone about the Island, or his experiences, or the weird things that sometimes happened around him.... Still... he’d told that man about his mother, hadn’t he? Maybe they could be trusted. Maybe they could _help_ him. “I-” His voice fell flat for a moment. “I saw my mom.”

Mrs. Bell nodded, taking the stage. “The man that brought you here told us that, too. However, we looked into your file, and it shows that your mother passed away a few months ago.”

Walt hesitated. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “sometimes I see people, I guess.”

The counselor’s brows raised slightly. “See people? Like who?”

“People I knew on—” He stopped speaking and shook his head. “People I knew. I think they’re dead now, though.” Walt hadn’t forgotten Charlie, and wondered if anyone else would be stopping by.

“Why do you think that?” Mr. Sanders asked.

“It’s happened a few times. I mean, I saw my mom, and she’s dead. I used to see people right before they died, sometimes in my dreams, or in real life.” Walt gulped and wrung his hands together. “I was walking to science and saw Charlie.”

“Who’s Charlie?”

“He was someone I knew a while ago. I guess that means he’s dead now, too.”

The three adults exchanged glances. “Okay,” Mr. Sanders said, “so you saw Charlie in the hallway, then you saw your mom?”

“Yeah.” He looked down at his hands, where he was still pressing the freezing ice pack on his knuckles. “I started punching the tree outside. Someone pulled me back and said it was gonna be okay. That no one would hurt me. When I looked up it was my mom so I ran.”

Mrs. Pinkman sighed. “You may have seen that in a movie or a show, but wounding your hands is not a good idea, especially at such a young age. You could permanently injure yourself.”

Yeah. Whatever. Walt crossed his arms and looked away.

Mrs. Bell leaned forward. “We’ve already contacted your grandmother — she’ll be down here to pick you up soon.”

Walt looked at the counselor in surprise. “I’m going home?”

“Yes. We can’t risk you running away again, and we think it’s best if you rest for a while.”

“Oh.” He felt something like dread crawl in his chest. “Am I suspended?”

“No.” Mrs. Bell quickly shook her head. “Nothing like that. See it as a short medical leave. We want your hands to heal, and we want you to feel better when you return. Your grandmother will explain more, I imagine.”

“Okay...” He sunk into his chair and the adults began having a conversation about something he didn’t really care about.

The telephone eventually rung and Mr. Sanders answered it, standing up soon after. “Your grandmother is here. Let’s go.” Walt followed him into the office, where she was waiting for him with a worried look on her face. She signed him out and they walked out of the school and hopped into the car.

They said nothing to each other for a while. Grandma finally cleared her throat and looked over slowly. “Hey, baby,” she said. “Want to talk to me about what happened?”

Walt shook his head.

“All right.” She frowned and returned to gazing down the road. “Tomorrow you won’t be going to school. You have a...” Grandma paused, trying to form her words. “You have a doctor’s appointment of sorts. You’ll do a test, but it’s easy. Just yes or no answers.”

Walt said nothing, but thought, _Okay._

Everything changed from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 1 !! not exactly sure how many parts this’ll be... maybe 2 or 3 idk. it was originally gonna be one but i have a lot more i wanna explore so lol here we are. hope you enjoyed! walt is so fun and interesting to write about. 
> 
> stay tuned for next chapter! walt gets a psych evaluation, some things are revealed, and we get mean kiddos at school >:(
> 
> thanks for reading! y’all mean the world to me


	2. sleepless nights

_January 4, 2005_

Truthfully, Walt hadn’t been sure what this ‘test’ was going to entail. For starters, he thought he was crazy, and maybe he’d end up in a psych ward for seeing dead people. But, then again, maybe someone would believe him if he was truthful about his experiences – about what he’d seen on the Island.

That was far from likely, though. Walt wasn’t stupid, and he knew that if he was completely truthful, that something bad would happen. He needed to lie. Pretend that none of it ever happened.

“Remember,” Grandma said once they slid into the car, adjusting the glasses on her face. “Answer everything as honestly as you can.”

Walt didn’t respond. He watches the trees pass by the window as they drove, closing his eyes and imagining the spray of sunlight kissing his skin as he ran on the beach with Vincent. Those were memories he cherished – memories he missed. Others... not so much. 

When he opened his eyes, they were parked in front of a large tan-bricked building. Walt frowned and grudgingly followed his grandmother inside, winding through the hallways until they entered a patient waiting room. The nerves spiking in his chest caused Walt immense discomfort, and he found that he couldn’t sit still.

What if they found out he was lying? No less, what if they really did decide he was crazy and throw him in the looney bin? _But what if I am insane? What if nothing I’ve seen is real?_ Those were thoughts he wanted to stay away from. Walt knew what he’d seen was real. 

_But..._ Walt frowned and wiped a hand down his face, beginning to tremble. Maybe the doctors would believe him, or even if they thought he was crazy, maybe they’d give him some medicine and send him home. That would be best. And... maybe the visions would go away. Maybe he’d finally get better.

_“I can see you’re thinking something.”_ A familiar British voice snapped Walt from his thoughts and he whirled his head to the side, ignoring the cautious call from his grandmother. He made eye contact with Charlie, who was standing next to the wall, and his blood ran cold. _“What is it, eh? You gonna tell ‘em you were on a bloody magical island?”_

Walt wanted to respond, but was terrified that he would say it out loud and look even more insane. _No_, he said slowly in his head, studying Charlie’s expression. _But I’m thinking this will end well if I just tell the truth about what I see._

_“Hah!”_ Charlie wheezed and bent over, slapping a hand over his thigh. _“Do you really think they’ll just send you home?”_

_...Yes._

_“Wrong. They will never believe you, and before you know it, you’ll be behind a new set of bars you’ll never set yourself out of.”_ Charlie leaned back and crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side. _“Is that something you want?”_

Walt frowned. Of course not, but what other choice did he have, now that he was here? _I... no. No, I don’t, why would I want that?_

_“Good choice.”_ Charlie pushed himself off of the wall, padding in front of Walt and tucking his hands in his jacket pockets. _“If you ever want to come back to the Island, you’re going to have to lie.”_

_Lie..._ Walt had amused the idea, but he wasn’t sure he could pull it off. If he was seeing a professional, wouldn’t they know?

_“That sounds like a you problem, mate.”_ Walt realized Charlie could hear his unsaid thoughts, too. _“Yeah, I can. And I suggest you stop thinking so hard and just go through with it. Otherwise...”_ He shrugged. _“Bye-bye Island.”_

“No,” Walt whispered aloud.

Grandma turned her head to the side. “What, honey?”

“N-nothing,” he stuttered quickly. Walt looked back up at Charlie. _I’ll go back to the Island? One day?_

Charlie shrugged. _“What do I look like, your magic genie? It’s up to you whether or not you want to come back to the Island. I can’t make that happen for you. A dead person can only do so much.”_

Walt froze, eyes widening slowly. _You’re... you’re dead..._

_“Well, of course!”_ Charlie scoffed and looked around the room, pointing at Walt. _“You hear this guy? Asking if I’m _dead_?”_ He said it as if everyone else could hear, but no one even looked. Charlie turned his gaze back to Walt. _“You can see dead people, Walt.”_

_But... but how does that even—_

_“Shushshushush!”_ Charlie bent down and pressed his finger to Walt’s moving lips. _“Don’t ask questions. Just do what you’re supposed to do, and things may just work out in your favor.”_ Walt narrowed his eyes and Charlie stood up, yawning. _“All right. I’m out of here. Have fun, little man.”_ Before another word could be said, the rockstar turned and walked out of the door.

Walt’s eyebrows creased and he flexed his fingers, trying to decide if what he’d seen was real, and if so, if Charlie was right. He frowned, turned his head, and focused on the door. Any minute now. Then, a woman in a white uniform opened the door. “Walter Dawson?”

Dawson. The name angered him, sometimes. He couldn’t go by his former name — he and his father had to be _safe_ — but he wished his grandmother had chosen something different than Michael’s surname. 

Speaking of, Grandma stood up and thumbed Walt’s hand. “Ready, baby?” she asked, eyes round and kind.

“Yeah,” he said, biting back the fear that clenched his teeth together and set his jaw into a tight lock. He numbly followed his grandmother through the hallways, ignoring the screaming and crying of children in separate rooms. For some reason, it didn’t bother him.

“Here.” The woman that had called his name motioned toward an open door. “Mrs. Briggs is waiting inside.” Grandma nodded and led the way into the room.

Walt eyed the woman sitting across from him, sun-kissed brown skin glimmering in the harsh light above. She wheeled herself around and smiled, but Walt could tell something wasn’t right. Her grin was too toothy for his liking, too artificial. Mrs. Briggs rested her clipboard on her crossed legs and chewed the tip of her pen, adjusting her glasses. “Hello, Dawson family,” she said, “how’s everyone doing today?”

Walt stayed quiet, eyes trained on nothing but the carpet underneath them. Grandma spoke up politely. “We’re doing good, thank you. How about you?”

“I’m fine.” Mrs. Briggs shifted in her chair and fixed her piercing blue gaze on Walt. “Now, I imagine this must be very scary for the both of you. That’s okay — it’s a common preliminary reaction. That being said, I’d like to take you through the steps of what tests we’ll be running on Walt — can I call you Walt? — and how they will be the deciding factor in his report.” She smiled sweetly. Walt cringed away. 

“Okay,” Grandma said hesitantly, shifting her arm and slipping her fingers through Walt’s. He shuddered and pulled away, visibly uncomfortable. If Mrs. Briggs noticed, she didn’t comment on it. 

“Now,” the doctor began, “first we’ll begin with a general screening test — nothing scary, just some Yes and No questions Walt will answer. If I come to the conclusion that there are symptoms present, we will begin to work our way toward either an MRI or CT scan. If not, I’ll refer you to a professional that specializes in the boundaries of his . . .”

Walt tuned the conversation out, watching the spirals of patterns in the tan carpet swirl through his mind, morphing into the methodical swish of waves splashing on the beach shore, foam bubbling at his feet. When Walt looked up, he was surrounded by a pale, sandy beach, sun beaming high in the sky, rainforest rustling behind him. Walt tightened his grip on Vincent’s leash and led the way down the shoreline, smiling when the water touched his toes.

Boone waved to him as he walked by, and Jack smiled at he and Vincent, joining Kate next to the pile of plane wreckage. Near the crash site, Walt was sure to avoid the specks of metal cutting into the ground, letting the honey-golden lab take the initiative. _Just in case._ He eventually wandered away from the group, sighing softly and letting his knees fall into the soft sand, hands fingering through the waves and salt and dirt. He smiled, content, and wrapped an arm around Vincent, scratching his head. “I hope we stay here forever,” he said.

“Walt . . . Walt.”

He snapped out of his trance, dark gaze meeting Mrs. Briggs. She looked him over for a moment, pen tapping on her clipboard, and hummed thoughtfully. “Well, now that I’ve explained everything, I think we can start the screening. Walt, if you’d like, we can take the test alone. However, if you’d feel more comfortable with your grandmother by your side, then by all means, feel free to let her stay.”

“Um...” He shrugged. “I guess it’s fine if she stays.” _Not as if I’ll be truthful, anyway._ He had to listen to Charlie’s advice. If there was any hope of returning to the Island, then lying had to be it.

“Alright.” She leaned back and clicked her pen open, fumbling with the case. “Now, these are just Yes or No questions, so don’t be too intimidated, okay?”

Walt nodded slowly.

“First off, Walt, do you ever hear or see things that other people around you can’t?”

_Yes._. 

His tongue almost worked against him. Walt furrowed his brows and kept his composure, trying to breathe. “No,” he lied.

Mrs. Briggs marked something on the piece of paper. “Do you struggle to trust that what you think is real?”

_Yes._

“No,” he said.

“Do you feel that you have powers that other people can’t understand or appreciate?”

Walt stiffened, but quickly smoothed it over with the roll of his shoulders. He thought about seeing his mother, and Charlie, and... what else? Truly, weird supernatural things — _powers_ — had revolved around his life for quite some time. Dead birds, whispering at night, his gut pulling him back toward the Island.

Walt swallowed shakily. “No.”

Mrs. Briggs hummed. “Do you feel like you’re being tracked, followed, or watched at home, outside, or at school?”

“No.”

“Do you struggle to keep up with daily tasks? Showering, brushing your teeth, eating all three meals, you know.” She waved her hand and smiled reassuringly to Grandma.

“Um...” He scratched the back of his head. Grandma would know if he was lying about this question. “Sometimes, I guess...”

“Do you find it difficult to organize or keep track of your thinking?”

“...No.”

Question upon question upon _question_ was really starting to get to him —

“And, lastly, do you feel like you have little in common with family and friends?”

He exhaled thickly. “Depends,” is all he gave.

Mrs. Briggs paused and lowered her clipboard, fixing Walt with an intense icy stare. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to be alone for the questionnaire? If you have anything you need to tell me, I’m perfectly okay to send your grandmother out.”

Walt felt the terror gripping his shoulders, fingers of paranoia and fear holding him down. “N-no, I’m sure,” he said. 

Grandma frowned.

Mrs. Briggs adjusted her glasses again. “Let’s talk about this incident I keep hearing about. Would you mind running me through what happened?”

His throat went dry. What did he say? _I definitely can’t say anything about my mother...maybe..._ He shouldn’t have told anything to the school. Now he was caught up in this mess, and had to lie to get himself out of it. “I- I thought I saw someone I knew,” Walt mumbled, “and I got scared and.... and ran...”

“That’s pretty far to run, Walt.” She checked her paper. “From what I see, you ran at least a mile and a half away from school. In addition, you told the principal — as well as your nurse and counselor — that you saw someone named Charlie, as well as your mother. Is this correct?”

Walt couldn’t breathe. His chest constricted, all air flow puffing out of his lungs. He desperately tried to find a lie, tried to connect a puzzle piece that simply didn’t fit. It felt like there was nothing he could do. _I can’t lie anymore!_ And then he heard Charlie’s echoing voice in his head, blunt and emotionless — if he didn’t lie, he would never return to the Island again.

It was that simple. Hah, _simple_.

“It’s okay, hunny,” Grandma said, patting Walt’s back.

He frowned and tried to make it appear as if he’d been trying to remember. “To.. to be honest..” His voice came out tired and grated. “I don’t remember much. I don’t remember talking about seeing my mom...”

Grandma and Mrs. Briggs exchanged a glance, something that Walt couldn’t decipher. It hopefully wouldn’t matter, as long as his fib passed. Mrs. Briggs eventually smiled, sweetly deceptive. “Walt, would you mind waiting outside while I talk to your grandmother?”

That didn’t sound great, but Walt shrugged anyway. “Sure.” He stood up and retreated from the room. He heard the muffled voices inside and hesitated. Was it wrong to eavesdrop? _No, it’s about me. I deserve to know._ Walt slowly pressed his ear to the door, narrowing his eyes in concentration.

“I’m unsure of what exact incident your grandson suffered from. If he has ever exhibited signs of schizophrenia, then he wasn’t truthful. If that’s not the case, however, I believe that Walt may have suffered from some kind of anterograde amnesia, possibly even dissociative amnesia, which usually stems from a traumatic event. If I may ask, why does Walt live with you?”

Grandma didn’t speak for a moment, he heard. “Walt... his parents died.”

“Both?”

“Yes. His mother from cancer, in Australia, then his father... not too long ago.”

Mrs. Briggs hummed. “That may very well be the case, then. However, I’m still not completely convinced that this isn’t something else. Until I know more, I don’t have authorization to process a CT or MRI scan. Would you mind keeping a watch on Walt until your next appointment? Here are some of the exhibited symptoms. . .”

Walt grew bored and trailed off of the conversation, stepping away from the door and leaning on the wall, blowing air through his chapped lips. There were so many words that had been used — schizophrenia, amnesia, dissociative amnesia — he wasn’t sure what to think. In truth, Walt had no idea what they meant, but figured it was better if he didn’t know.

He waited a little longer, trailing in circles until the door opened. Grandma blinked at him and smiled softly. “C’mon, baby, we’re going home.”

“Can I go back to school now?” he asked.

Grandma looked at him curiously. “You _want_ to go back to school?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t have much else to do.”

“I think it would be better if you stayed home for today at least. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess.” 

As he and Grandma checked out of the doctor’s office, Walt looked back at Mrs. Briggs’s door and wondered what would’ve happened had he actually told the truth.

* * *

_January 10, 2005_

Time had passed slowly. 

It was hard to explain. After the doctor’s visit a few days ago, he’d been wondering how to continue acting fine and relaxed. Every day he wondered if he hadn’t lied efficiently enough, if he hadn’t convinced Mrs. Briggs, if he’d never go back to the Island...

Hah. _Relaxed._ To be honest, Walt couldn’t relax. He couldn’t stop stressing, couldn’t stop the visions, couldn’t stop seeing his _mother_. Sometimes he’d walk into a classroom and she’d be standing right by the teacher, looking at him with a sad smile. Walt would just pretend she wasn’t there and move on with the lesson. 

She’d been appearing less, but still. His odd behavior had attracted a few guys that used the better time of their lives harassing Walt. Whispering about him in class, sniggering when he walked by in the halls, spreading rumors. It didn’t completely bother Walt, but he just wished people wouldn’t believe the nonsense that went around school. There were so many more important things, but everyone seemed intent on making his life a living hell. Oh well. He could deal.

Until the guys found out his dad was ‘dead.’ And his mom. And how he was living with his grandmother, and was practically an orphan. When they confronted him that day, that was the day he snapped. And that was the day things became infinitely worse. 

“So. Your daddy’s dead, eh?”

Walt had been rummaging around his locker, backpack curled in his hands. He clenched his fingers but ignored Tyrone. If he gave them attention, he knew it would only get worse. _My dad’s not dead. He’s just crazy. Only you have to know. Don’t tell them anything._

“Yeah,” Dameon chimed in, a smirk spread across his ugly face. “So’s your _mommy._” His voice was high and mocking. “Whatcha gonna do, rich boy? Sad you don’t live in Australia anymore?”

“How do you know that?” Walt asked calmly, trying not to lash out. He turned to Dameon, brows furrowed.

Dameon’s eyes lit up. He’d gotten a reaction, _finally._ “We googled your name.”

_What? But how?_ Something thick, like horror, clawed up his throat. _We changed my name. No one’s supposed to know who I am. How did they find me just by looking up my name?_

“N-no,” Walt stuttered.

“Hah!” Tyrone laughed at him and slapped Walt’s backpack out from under him. “You in the ghetto now. Rich kids don’t survive here for long.”

“Hey!” a shrill voice called from the other side of the hall, garnering their attention. “You three boys get to class. Your passing period ends in two minutes.”

Walt glared at Tyrone and Dameon as they walked away, a swagger in their stride. He decided that he hated them. Hated them for finding out about his life, hated them for trying to hurt him, hated them for being so mean. He just wanted to be left alone.

He wanted to be back on the Island. Unfortunately, it seemed like that was never going to happen, was it?

The days dragged by. Dameon and Tyrone still harassed him, but now it wasn’t just them. They had a whole posse behind their backs. Walt ignored them the best he could, but that was becoming increasingly hard to do. Now that they knew about his past — however they did, because Walt didn’t really know — they seriously deemed him as some sort of... threat.

It was pathetic. Still, that didn’t mean they were stupid. In fact, most of the time, teachers thought they were _friends_. Tyrone and Dameon always laughed about it — after all, how could they be friends with someone like Walt? — and that seemed to only make it worse.

Four days passed. 

Walt would remember it for the rest of his life. He’d been waiting for the bus to pick him up and snatched one of the unread newspapers sitting on Grandma’s desk before he left for school. Here he was, sheltered under a tree so the rain didn’t get to him, staring at the words that he genuinely couldn’t comprehend.

__

###### OCEANIC SIX RECEIVES HEROES WELCOME.

__

##### The London Daily Tribune.

__

##### January 14, 2005.

__

>   
_After the infamous crash of Oceanic Flight 815 that was found submerged in the bottom of the ocean on December 5, 2004, six survivors have been rescued and brought back into the United States._
> 
> _Jack Shephard, Kate Austen, Aaron Austen, Hugo Reyes, Sun Kwon, and Sayid Jarrah were found half-submerged in a raft on the eastern coast of Sumba, Indonesia. Local fisherman helped them from the water._
> 
> _The U.S. Coast Guard and Oceanic Airlines brought what are now called ‘The Oceanic Six’ to a private military base in Honolulu. They were reunited with their family and spoke in a press conference moderated by public relations representative Karen Decker, where all five survivors claimed they had washed ashore on Membata, an uninhabited Indonesian island. For 103 days they lived on the island, and in that time, Kate Austen gave birth to her son, Aaron Austen. _
> 
> _On the 103rd day, a typhoon washed the remnants of a fishing boat, a raft, and supplies to the island. The survivors took their chance and landed on a fishing village, Manukangga. _
> 
> _The press conference has been released online. However, the Oceanic Six’s privacy should be respected after their experience, and we hope to support them during this trying time._

The smudge of raindrops blurred the words, but Walt didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to understand what they meant. They were back. _They were back, and they had lied_. It felt like a brutal blow to the chest.

After everything they’d been through on that damn island, the _Oceanic Six_ came back and got to dictate Walt’s life. For what? Now, he would never be able to tell the truth. He would never be able to admit that he’d been stuck on an Island for more days than he could count. No one would ever believe him.

When the bus arrived, Walt seated himself on it but didn’t feel completely... there. He ripped the article out of the newspaper and stuffed it in his backpack, mind feeling fuzzy. The rage burning, hotter and hotter, until Walt simply couldn’t feel anymore. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Most importantly, he wanted to know _why they had lied._

But he probably never would. He was just a dumb kid that didn’t know anything, right? They probably didn’t even trust him because of his dad! And he was who knows where by this time. His grandmother would never know what had happened to him, and Walt was simply bound to be an outsider for the rest of his life. The sheer intensity of the truth fell on him like a ton of bricks, and it truly hurt.

School dragged by. Walt found it close to impossible to focus on anything _but_ the Oceanic Six. At least the guys were leaving him alone today. Walt was tired of dealing with them.

In the last period of the day, Walt stood up when the bell rang, intent on hitching the bus back home. However, Mrs. Dower had different ideas. “Walt. Would you mind talking to me?”

He stopped in his tracks and internally sighed, turning on his feet as his classmates streamed past him. Dameon gave him a dirty look when he walked by, but didn’t dare say or do anything with their teacher watching. Once everyone had left the classroom, Mrs. Dower stared at him. “Everything okay, Walt?”

“Yep,” he said.

“Are you sure? I tried to call on you but you didn’t even look at me.”

Walt froze. He didn’t remember that at all. _Was I really so spaced out?_ He curled his fingers in and made sure not to show that he was trembling. “I was just daydreaming.”

Mrs. Downer looked uncertain, but nodded anyway. “Alright. Just remember that I’m here if you need anyone to talk to.”

He swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

That night, Walt hit his pillow with a groan, absolutely exhausted beyond all recognition. He turned on his side and let the warmth of the sheets draw him into a different time, somewhere he’d never seen before...

Waves lapped through the ocean as Walt opened his eyes. It felt like he was floating — his body was completely suspended in air, his legs swishing back and forth through nothing but the air. He turned his head and recognized that he was in some sort of dream, but wasn’t exactly sure what it would entail. A scream suddenly ripped from his throat, but he wasn’t sure why. There was no pain. 

Suddenly, Walt was thrown forward into a series of flashes. He saw a freighter, a dead body laying head-down in the water, a loud helicopter whirring above in the clouded sky, a plume of smoke, _the Island._ The rainforest shivered with the impact of a bomb, and Walt saw someone scrambling through the mass of fire and debris, and he nearly choked because _it was his father._

Michael dropped down next to the wall — it looked to be somewhere inside the freighter — and held on to a piece of paper, eyes screwed shut. “I love you, Walt,” Michael whispered, before his entire body was disintegrated by the explosion. Walt could feel the flames hungrily lap at his face, could feel the heat burning under his feet, could see the helicopter flying away, could hear screaming and crying and—

Walt jerked awake. Harsh, heavy breaths wrenched from his throat, sweat drenching his entire body. His eyes widened with the sudden realization of what he’d seen. Michael. His father.

He was dead.

Involuntary sobs ripped from his jaws. Walt curled his arms around his legs and drew them into his chest, salty tears dripping down his cheeks. His father was dead, and he’d never gotten to say goodbye. Never gotten to say ‘I love you’ for the last time. It hurt. It was so much worse than his mother’s death, because now he actually _felt_ something, wherein before Walt had been.... numb.

He pressed his face into his palms and let his shoulders shake with his cries. The last sight Walt would ever have of his father was that of his last moments on the freighter, of his body submerged as ashes. 

And, maybe, the last time he’d ever see the Island.


	3. raindrops

_February 6, 2005_

“Walt?”

He tilted his head to the side and stared at his counselor — he couldn’t remember her name, even after ‘the incident’ — with a half-lidded gaze. “Yes?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Sorry,” was all he said. Walt’s eyes flicked to the name card on her desk. Mrs. Bell. That was her name.

She sighed softly and placed her hands in her lap. “I was asking if Dameon and Tyrone have been harassing you.”

Walt prickled in surprise, frowning deeply. “Why?”

“Another student said she saw them being mean to you.” Mrs. Bell didn’t take her eyes off of him. “Is that true?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“What do they say?”

Walt’s throat felt like it closed up. He rubbed at his eyes and wiped beads of sweat off of his forehead. “Uh, they just.... talk about my mom and dad, I guess. They call me a ‘rich boy.’ It’s more annoying than anything.”

Mrs. Bell appeared to be very alarmed, but Walt wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t that big of a deal, was it? “What do they say, specifically?”

This was feeling all too personal. “I think you know,” Walt managed to choke out. “My parents are- are dead, so. They were just mocking me. One time they tripped me, another they shoved my backpack off of me.... yeah.”

She stood up suddenly, a strained smile on her face. “Thanks, Walt,” she said smoothly. “You can go back to class now.”

Walt didn’t see Dameon or Tyrone the rest of the day. He shrugged it off — maybe they were skipping or tracking down another victim — and continued on, not bothering to let his mind trace back to them.

Besides, Walt had other things to worry about. It’d been almost a full month since the Oceanic Six has become worldwide news. In addition, a month since Walt had experienced the nightmare — or vision, or whatever that was — about his father dying. Every time he thought back to it, he grew more numb. The emotions that had once struggled in his chest were completely gone. Walt felt nothing anymore. He wasn’t sure if he should be worried or relieved.

Okay. Really, though — the Dameon and Tyrone situation was eating at him. The next day, Walt didn’t see either of them. Another two days passed and they were still gone. He pondered whether or not they could’ve run away like the idiots they are, but figured that didn’t make much sense.

On the fifth day of the dynamic duo missing, Walt eventually decided to shove his thoughts to the back of his mind and focus on other things. The bus wasn’t coming today so he was going to have to walk home, which. Well. Sucked, considering it was pouring rain. Grandma was working and didn’t have time to get him until at least 7, and there was no way Walt would wait for another three hours. He’d make it back home before then.

Wiping his nose, Walt opened one of the side doors to the school and grumbled when water droplets sprayed across his clothes, beads dripping down his hair. He resigned himself to his fate. Walt was definitely going to be soaked when he returned home. He looked around the roads for a while and eventually turned down an alley a block away from the school, shoes scrabbling across the gravel. 

There was a sudden pained feeling in his chest. Walt paused and narrowed his eyes, stopping in his tracks. A sharp kick in the gut made him dizzy. What the hell was going on? The fear and paranoia began to set in, and before he knew it, a group of shadows whirled around his vision. Walt raised his head and gasped when a knee connected to his face. His head was blown back by the impact and he toppled over, collapsing to the ground. Through the haze, he made out Tyrone.

“You little shit!” the boy snarled, Dameon on his side. Walt noticed a few others, but wasn’t sure who they were. “You got us suspended!”

“Snitch!” Dameon spat.

“I- I didn’t-” Walt tried to speak but was silenced by a sharp kick to the gut, and it felt exactly like before — right before all of this had happened. He gasped through his heaving lungs and dug his fingers through the gravel, desperately trying to reach for some kind of lifeline. Another shoe connected to his ribs and he cried out, breath dying in the back of his throat. 

“Pussy!” Tyrone laughed. “Can’t even fight!”

Walt slowly pulled himself up to his knees, blinking slowly and groaning. “Hey, pl- please,” he croaked. A harsh slap to the face brought him back into reality. Walt felt his skin split under one of the other guy’s punches and a horrid, stinging pain accompanied. He wailed and fell back to the ground, where another punch landed on his nose this time. Walt swore he saw stars.

And then.... quiet.

Quiet.

That was often a foreign concept to Walt. He listened to the sheets of rain falling from the sky, soaking through his bloodied mess of clothes. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, whirring him back to the Island, in a time where it had always rained, where he’d always taken great pleasure in sprinting through the jungle.

Suddenly, Walt was crying. His crying turned into sobbing and his sobbing turned into screaming. He couldn’t move his body — every time he shifted, hot, white pain flooded through his limbs. His eyes were crusted and he could feel the blood splattered all over his face, could hardly breathe through the pain in his abdomen. He dropped his arms to his sides and let his fingers curl under his clothes, gently running them over the bruises. Walt was almost glad he couldn’t see.

The next moments were fuzzy and unclear. He definitely saw a red truck somewhere in the shadows of his peripheral vision, but the world became muffled afterward. Walt could see the blur of colors and sounds somewhere inside of a hospital. When he awoke again, he was fastened down to a white bed, leather straps digging into his skin. Walt suddenly couldn’t breathe and began to thrash, arms wildly thrashing. “Help!” he screamed, and all Walt could see was Henry Gale’s face.

“Baby! Baby, it’s okay—” Walt sobbed at the sound of Grandma’s voice and shook his head, collapsing back into the bed. Fat tears ran down his cheeks. His grandmother unstrapped his wrists and rubbed her hand over his, murmuring something sweet and quiet that he couldn’t really understand, but comforted him nonetheless. He eventually fell asleep again, and when he awoke, a nurse was checking over his vitals.

He groaned softly and flexed his weak fingers, trying to piece together what had happened. Walt’s body felt like a damp blanket sinking into a soft mattress. The pain that was formerly present had faded away, dimmed into nothing more than an itch. 

When the nurse noticed that he was awake, she quickly turned off one of the lights. He let out a small breath and relaxed in the darkness. “Hello, Walt.” A cheerful voice brought him out of his exhaustion. He would’ve groaned, but his throat felt like it’d been subject to a whirlwind of fire. “How are you doing?”

Resigning himself to his fate of silence, Walt mutely shrugged, wincing when a flicker of pain passed through his aching body. 

“Do you know where you are?”

His eyelids cracked open slightly wider to take in where he was. Clearly a hospital — but why? Everything before was fuzzy, a tangle of memories he couldn’t quite piece together. The steady rhythm of his heart through a machine stirred him back into reality. _Beep, beep, beep...._ Walt’s gaze flickered to the nurse and he nodded hesitantly.

“Great!” She grinned and turned on her heel. “I’ll be right back to get the doctor.” A few moments later, a tall man walked through the door, onyx eyes gleaming like stones. He strode forward, almost mechanically, and Walt realized the nurse wasn’t there. He puffed out a startled breath when the doctor crawled on top of him, crushing Walt’s beneath his own weight. A pair of hands wrapped around his throat and Walt began to choke, body bucking in an attempt to escape. He was bound by the leather straps, though, and a darkness began to filter around his vision, making everything a foggy haze, and he couldn’t _breathe_—

“Hey, shhhh.” 

Walt was brought out of his nightmare as soon as it was over. A scream ripped from his throat and he began to jerk wildly, the restraints cutting into his skin like hot metal rods. He refused to open his eyes, terrified that he’d see the black-eyed doctor, but registered the voice to belong to his.... grandmother..? His beating heart calmed in his chest and Walt breathed in roughly, trying to filter oxygen through his pained lungs.

“Hey, baby, it’s okay—” Someone moved around him. “Let’s get these awful straps off of you.” He flopped back into the bed, tears involuntarily leaking out of his dark eyes. The confusion and pain was becoming almost too hard to handle. More voices filtered through the room but they were dull in comparison to Grandma’s. She was angry. He could feel it. _But not at me._

“Ma’am,” a deeper voice said, “I’m sorry, but we had no choice. Your grandson was—”

“Do I look like I give a shit what my grandson was doing? He was attacked and you restrained him like a dog about to be put down! This is inhumane!” his grandmother snarled.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but again, your grandson wouldn’t cooperate to the medicine or our attempts to calm him. I’m sorry that we upset you, but we can take them off now.”

“I will!” Walt opened his glassy eyes and Grandma sharply moved her head back, smiling softly. “Hi, babe.” She loosened the straps and slid them off, a nurse doing the same on his other arm. Walt exhaled and brought his aching arms to his chest, rubbing his fingers over the bruises. _Those will hurt later._

Then, suddenly, everything rushed back. He saw Dameon and Tyrone and their boys, and the blood was pooling around his body — he could see it as if he were an outside spectator. He registered some kind of truck pulling up to his side and dragging him inside, but everything after that was dark. Walt wasn’t sure how he’d even made it to the hospital. “What-” His voice grated against his throat and he coughed deeply, chest rumbling with the effort and pain. “Happened...?”

Grandma was quiet, for once.

The main doctor spoke, uncertainly making his way to the front. He side-eyed his grandmother and eventually smiled, but it was strained. “You’ve suffered multiple bruises to your lungs and have a few stitches on your face. It’s not as bad as it sounds, trust me. As for what happened...” He cautiously glanced at Grandma.

She went next. “You were attacked in the alley,” she growled, eyes fiery and alight with rage. “I talked to the school and they suspected it was two boys — Tyrone and Dane, or something. Do you remember anything? Do you know who they are?”

The doctor realized he wasn’t needed and bent his head down in an awkward sort of bow, leaving the room. The two nurses exchanged a glance and eventually followed suit, leaving grandmother and grandson to converse.

“I...” Walt ran a hand down his face and shivered at the touch. He could still feel the agony pulsing through his entire body just from the ordeal. “I- I was called to the office last week.” He cleared just throat and Grandma handed him a glass of water. He sipped it gingerly, trying not to to cough. “They wanted to know if Dameon and Tyrone were...” He trailed off. “Were bullying me.”

“Were they?” she asked, eyes trained on Walt.

He shrunk under her gaze. “Y-yeah, I mean, sometimes.”

“What did they do? Did they say anything?”

Walt closed his eyes and re-opened them. “Just talked about my parents. Called me a ‘rich boy,’ said I’d never belong at Liberty...” He shrugged, wishing the discomfort could just slide off of his shoulders. “Just hit me sometimes. It was n-nothing bad, really. But then someone saw them and reported it, I guess...”

“So you told the office,” his grandmother said, nodding. “Okay. That’s good. But.... do you think it was them that hurt you?”

Walt nodded. “It w- was. I remember. They were mad ‘cause I got them suspended.”

Grandma ground her teeth together and patted her hand on Walt’s leg, trying to smile. It didn’t work very well. “We’ll figure this out,” she assured, more to herself than anyone. “Trust me.”

He did. If Walt knew one thing, it was that Grandma was fiercely protective over him. 

The next week passed by rather quickly. Walt had been discharged from the hospital after a full day and night, but was told to stay put in his bed for another half month before he could return to school. However, Walt wasn’t sure about Liberty anymore. 

Neither was Grandma.

She’d made several visits to the school since his ‘accident.’ She always tried to convince Walt that they went fine, but he could tell she was furious by her shaking hands and sweating forehead. 

Grandma eventually came clean and admitted that she’d been demanding Liberty not allow Dameon or Tyrone to return to the school. However, they didn’t have ‘evidence’, and it was ‘school policy’ to let them return after a week and a half suspension. Grandma threatened a lawsuit but Walt knew they were too poor to do anything against the school. 

At least, until a check of $2,000,000 came into the mail, a note attached that read: _Complimentary for Michael Dawson’s business._

Grandma didn’t want to take it at first, but Walt was able to convince her to keep it. His chest constricted at the mere thought that they’d only received that check because his father had died on the freighter, but figured it would be best to keep it to himself. Besides, the note never said anything about Michael’s death, so it was better if Grandma never found out.

So, with this new great sum of money, Grandma decided to leave Liberty behind and move to New York City. Walt wasn’t any stranger to being uprooted from his home and thrown into another chaotic situation, but _New York City_ had certainly been unexpected. They were going to leave when he healed — and once that time came around, Cooperstown would be a speck in Walt’s memory, buried under a layer of trauma he simply never wanted to address.

* * *

_April 22, 2005_

Two months flew by Walt in what felt like a matter of seconds. Before he knew it, he and his grandmother had moved to New York City, bought a nice apartment down in SoHo, which. Well, it was nice. Of course, going out on the streets was vastly different than Cooperstown — people walked everywhere, the muffled honks of taxis filled the empty space at night, and it seemed the bustling would never end.

The people-watching was nice, as the smart tourists retreated from Midtown and Times Square to enjoy another side of the NYC experience. Walt walked to school — which was much closer and much larger — and, dare he say it, he actually enjoyed it most of the time. People were nicer and there was less judgement to pass around, as people from all over the world attended Fieldcroft School.

And then _things_ started happening again. Walt began to see people he shouldn’t have been seeing, like a couple who muttered about how they’d been buried alive, or a half-blown man with pieces of skin dangling from his face, and then he was seeing Shannon and Boone and— well. 

He sometimes wondered how Vincent was, if he was even alive, or if he’d died long ago, just after he’d left on the raft. The thought saddened him. He missed his dog. Luckily he hadn’t spotted ghost-Vincent yet, but unfortunately someone else began to show themselves.

His mother.

She didn’t speak to him anymore, instead opting to stare, glassy eyes never trailing from Walt. He continued trying to ignore her, whether it be through avoiding eye contact or even pretending she wasn’t there, but it gradually became harder and harder. The nightmares returned, visions of falling sheets of rain flashing through spires of lightning, fat green leaves drooping from the weight of the water. Walt usually saw Locke. Sometimes, he would be clinging to a tree, trying to escape a polar bear, but the trunk would begin to shrink and the branches would slide down like jelly and Walt would fall at the paws of the creature, and before he knew it, he’d be awake before he could watch himself be ripped apart by bloodied teeth and sharp yellow claws.

And then, on May 5, 2005, Walt spoke to his deceased mother for the first time since the incident at Harbor.

“What do you want?” he muttered as he clambered onto his bed, sweatshirt sleeves dropping down his wrists. Walt curled his arms around his legs and brought them to his chest, listening to the drowned sounds of rain outside his window.

Susan stared at him, mouth gaping dumbly. She eventually sat down across from him, but there was no depression in the bed, no feeling other than icy cold. “I just want to see you,” she finally said.

Walt forced himself to look at her, fingers curling and brows furrowing. “Why? You’re dead, Mom.”

“I know.”

“Then why don’t you move on?” He waved his hands. “Can’t you just... leave me alone?”

His mother hesitated, bringing her legs on top of the bed and crossing them over each other Indian style. “I can’t.”

Walt felt his heart shrivel up and die in his chest. “You _can’t_ move on?”

“No.”

“Why?” His desperation grew, expressing itself by clawing across his throat, cracking his voice into splintered cobwebs. 

Susan tried to speak, but no voice came out and her jaw grew stiff, mouth contorting into something ugly and pained. Her eyes sparked away and Walt watched as she dissolved, disappearing from thin air as if she’d never even been sitting there before. His mother was gone.

After that, she didn’t appear for another month. Summer was slow, mostly because Walt had no friends and almost nothing to do. Sometimes he used the computer for mindless games and stupid ‘YouTube’ videos, but nothing ever amounted to the fantasies Walt created in his head. Most of them were related to the Island, simple wishes that he could run across the sand with Vincent to his right, both splashing through the waves and the foam and the sludge.

And then, finally, she showed up again. She was hardly visible along the crest of the horizon, but Walt saw her while he was outside, looking out over the water on one of the piers. She was almost translucent, just a haze in the world, but she was there.

“You’re back,” Walt murmured, voice shaking. He looked at her, begging her to respond or make some motion that she could hear him.

Susan slowly inched her head to the side, fixing her dark gaze on Walt. “Yes.” Her voice was a whisper, as if she was taking great care in keeping her energy.

“You never answered me before,” he said, going straight to the point. “How do you move on? Is there any way I can help?” _I’m so, so tired of having to see you._ Walt didn’t say that aloud.

She took a small step forward, raised her hand, brushed her fingertips over Walt’s cheek. He swore he could feel the ghost of her touch. “I can’t move on until you move on, Walt.” Susan slowly withered away, spirit twirling and twisting until she was a speck of dust flickering through the air. 

_I can’t move on until you move on, Walt._ He shoved his hands in his pockets, looked across the water, the splashing waves and the bellowing of ships along the shore, and wondered what exactly his mother meant.

* * *

Seven months had passed. Seven months of indescribable confusion and resentment, seven months of hot anger toward the Oceanic Six for never visiting, seven months of living in New York City.

It wasn’t always bad, of course, but Walt knew this wasn’t where he belonged. Every single night he dreamed of the Island, dreamed of the rumble of thunder as rain splattered over the forest. He was twelve years old now, almost old enough to hit puberty (which he couldn’t say he was looking forward to), and dreading the lifeless years that NYC would bring until college.

Unfortunately, Fieldcroft School held some sort of aura that allowed Walt to fit in. In fact, he grew quite popular, which was a first. People looked up to him — people wanted to be his friend. He really wasn’t sure what to think about that, since his only friends had ever been those on the Island and Vincent, but tried to take advantage of it.

So, Walt was thrown to the top of the food chain. Teachers adored him. All of the guys were eager to befriend him, eager to invite him over and do whatever it is they wanted to. Sometimes they shot BB Guns, or played video games on the computer, or watched shows like The X-Files and Friends. Grandma even let Walt and his ‘friends’ go out on the streets and explore, with a curfew and boundaries of course.

Seven months also brought the first time Walt had ever been asked out. 

There was a girl that hung around his friend group, pretty nice but nothing special that ever really stuck out to Walt. Brown-haired, tan-skinned, gray eyes. She tried to talk to him sometimes, but Walt was awkward and uncomfortable in social settings. Still. She introduced herself as — what was it, Janice? Jane? — and Walt did the same. They hung out sometimes in class. They were partners in science. Really, that was the only time he ever saw her.

And then he was in the cafeteria, standing in line for food when he looked up at the TV. Breaking news. A red Camaro was involved in a live, high-speed police chase. Walt’s eyes widened when it was cornered and crashed, rolling on its wheels. But most shocking wasn’t anything else except for the person that came _out_ of the car, hands on his head. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m one of the Oceanic Six!”

_Hurley._

Walt felt something horrible, like acid, rise in his throat. He took a step back, hands shaking, eyes not leaving the TV screen. It was Hurley. He was being arrested. Why? What had gone through his brain to tell him running from the police would be a good idea? Was there something bigger behind it? Why had none of the Oceanic Six come out with the truth yet? Were they still scared? Where was everyone else that had been on the Island? Where was Locke?

He turned on his heel and ran. Walt hardly heard anyone, didn’t look at the people curiously glancing up at him, and certainly didn’t see Janice standing in his way. He puffed out a pained breath when he shoved himself into her shoulder, spiraling painfully. “Walt? Are you okay?” He didn’t know where the voice was coming from, but everything became horribly overwhelming, like the world had been turned to high volume.

Walt sped out of the cafeteria and found a bathroom, palming the door open and locking it behind him. He flicked on the lights and breathed harshly, clawing at the wall for some semblance of breath. Walt grabbed his legs and felt himself sag to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He began to sob, tears specking his cheeks, and he couldn’t stop— couldn’t stop the memories, the anxiety, the fear, the guilt, the anger, the grief. 

Both of his parents were dead. Brian wanted nothing to do with Walt. The only person that had ever understood him was gone, and he was left with nothing but a clueless grandmother. He couldn’t even say that Michael was around anymore, because he _wasn’t_. Walt had never even gotten to say goodbye. The last true memory he’d have of his father was the night Michael had tried to return and Walt had watched through his window. His father had waved and Walt had shut the curtains. 

The weight of everything came crashing down all at once. Walt felt his vision beat in and out of the shadows and wondered, for a moment, if he was going to pass out. _Help. Help me._ He tried to speak but no words moved past his lips, only harsh and ragged breaths that tore his throat apart. Walt’s world toppled in a matter of seconds and suddenly he was on the cool tile floor, hands splayed out awkwardly, trying to find something to grasp on for assistance. He rolled on his back and stared up at the ceiling, focusing on the dark stain where water had caved through the roof. _Drip. Drip. Drip._ Walt couldn’t tell if the wetness on his face was from the continuous pouring of rain outside or his own tears. Both, maybe.

Jesus Christ.

Why was he having a panic attack? Was seeing Hurley on TV really so shocking? Had the Island traumatized him so much that he couldn’t even look at his old friends without having a complete breakdown?

It took several minutes for Walt to push himself back to his feet and for the fog in his head to clear. He pushed a trembling hand forward and clicked open the door, staggering out of the bathroom. He sidestepped and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. He had to calm down. Nothing bad had happened. He was _fine_.

“Walt?”

His eyes snapped open immediately, brown gaze falling on Janice. Walt’s shoulders hunched and he wrapped an arm around his wrist self-consciously. “Hey,” he said, hoping the red marks around his eyes weren’t noticeable anymore. No one needed to know he’d been crying. 

“Here’s your backpack.” She smiled softly and set his bag down, pushing it over to him. Walt watched her and nodded slowly, wishing he could thank her, but he feared any more talking would trigger a worse breakdown than the one a few minutes ago. He expected her now to walk off, leave him be as it was so _awkward_ not talking, but she didn’t. Walt looked at her, wondering what she wanted. Janice twirled a finger through her hair and bit her lip. “So. Um.” She spluttered over her words, cheeks blossoming into a cherry-red. “Hey, are y- you going to the dance tonight?”

Confusion swept over Walt. “Dance?”

She nodded. “Yeah, the New Year’s Dance. It’s tonight, but- um- I don’t have anyone to go with, and if you didn’t, I was gonna see if maybe you’d-- go with me-?”

The last thing Walt had expected to hear from Janice was something about a dance, but knew that there was absolutely no way he’d be attending. He needed to get home, crawl into bed, and forget about the day. Actually, forget about his whole life. “Why would I go to a dance?” he eventually decided on.

Janice visibly deflated, hope-filled eyes sparking away. “Oh.” Her voice was flat with disappointment. Walt didn’t comment on it. “O- Okay, well.... I guess I’ll just... see you tomorrow.”

Walt nodded and watched her walk away, feet dragging across the ground. He turned his head to the side, breathed in deeply, and walked off, backpack in hand. Sixth period passed quickly, as did seventh. The bell rang and Walt trudged out of school, ‘friends’ on his side. It all felt artificial.

That was really the only word Walt could use to describe his life anymore. Having friends didn’t make him happy. Seeing old ones didn’t, either. It seemed the only thing he had to look forward to was the Island, but it was still a glimmer across the water, a speck in his vision... and, if Charlie’s words had any truth in the matter, Walt wasn’t even sure he’d ever even _return_ to the Island.

The thought was so dark and depressing that Walt crawled into bed, threw the covers over his head, and blocked out the world.


	4. home

The year had been rough.

Walt was no stranger to hardships in life, but the amount of continuous pain he’d been suffering through for the better part of twenty-two months was something new. Constant night terrors, visions, and schoolwork were catching up to him. 

And then, on November 22, 2007, Locke showed up.

Walt had walked out of school, talking to his ‘friends,’ when he’d seen Locke out of the corner of his eye. He stopped dead in his tracks, distractedly waved a hand at the group. John looked almost the same as he had three years ago — although the scar on his eye had faded considerably, the way he held himself was just as confident. He didn’t question why Locke was in a wheelchair or why the strange black man was standing on his shoulder. All he knew was that Locke was here.

Walt was excited.

He wasn’t sure why Locke was back in the real world, or where everyone else was, or if the people still on the Island were even alive, but Walt knew he wanted answers. _Needed_ answers. Locke always seemed to have had them so long ago, and Walt was sure he would now.

Some new emotion clawed up Walt’s throat when Locke raised a hand, waving over the street. He crossed over the pavement towards his old friends, face drawn into something like curiosity. Confusion. Wonder. Walt clutched his backpack tightly, observed the cast over Locke’s leg, then looked back up. Extended an arm and shook his hand. “Hey, John,” he said, a smile warming his cheeks.

Locke grinned. “Hi, Walt.” He laughed softly.

Walt glanced back down at his leg and observed the wheelchair. “What happened?”

“I hurt my leg,” John said simply. A pause. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

That familiar sensation of excitement tingled through his chest. “I’ve been having dreams about you.” Walt made sure his voice stayed even. It was true. He’d been having visions about Locke’s return, in a similar fashion to this. Except now, it was real. John tilted his head, giving him time to continue. “You were on the Island, wearing a suit, and there were people all around you. They wanted to hurt you, John.”

Locke raised his brows, offering no definitive answer. “Good thing they’re just dreams.”

Walt opened and shut his mouth, deciding it was better not to explain how, sometimes, his visions came true. And then there was a sudden urge inside to know what John knew, to figure out just how _much_ he knew. “Is my dad...” Walt tried to find the right words. “Is he back on the Island?” Perhaps there was also some child-like hope that his father was still alive, that the freighter nightmare hadn’t been anything but a nightmare. Maybe Michael _was_ alive. “I haven’t talked to him in...” He shrugged. “Three years. I figured he must’ve gone back.”

John tilted his head upwards, brows furrowing slightly. He looked like he was thinking, hesitating, links between words becoming slow and disoriented. “Um, last I heard, your dad was on a freighter _near_ the Island.”

Walt stared at him, almost unable to comprehend the words. It was true. Michael had been on the freighter, and now he was dead. He nodded slowly, taking a shaky step back. “So why’d you come to see me?”

John smiled and stared at Walt, looking him over with a soft gaze. In some ways, this man felt like more of a parent than Michael ever had been. When a beat of silence spread between them, the only thing Walt wanted to ask was, _What?_ “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He grinned slightly, nodding. “Yeah. I’m doing pretty good.” A pause. Locke said nothing more. “Well... I gotta go.” He looked over at where the bus was rumbling down the street. “It was good seeing you, John.”

“Yeah.” Locke clasped his hands over Walt’s, smile flickering. “Take care.”

Walt opened his mouth, almost daring to ask about the Island, about why Locke was back, about the Oceanic Six and his grandmother and so much more— but his legs were suddenly carrying him away from John, across the street and to the bus stop, and everything in Walt’s mind screamed, _Go back! Ask him! Talk to him! Go with him!_

Tears welled in his eyes, so sudden and unexpected that Walt was nearly blown back from the shock. He looked through the haze of people but Locke was gone, as was the black car, and he was alone again, with absolutely no one to speak to or talk to ever again. Walt’s lip trembled and he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, trying to control himself. Despite the sadness and grief and regret pulsing through his chest, Walt forced himself onto the bus, took his seat, and looked out of the window.

And he began crying. Nothing heavy, no sobbing or hysterical hiccuping, just.... weeping. Soft. Quiet. He shivered and curled his jacket closer to his body, wishing he was back on the Island, wishing that things could go back to the way they were before, wishing that he could amble through the plane wreckage and argue with his father and talk to Hurley and Shannon and Sayid and Jack and— 

It was never going to happen, though. Those days were long over. Walt was living in the real world now, and unfortunately had to deal with the very real fact that things would never be the same. He would never return to the Island. He would never be Walt Lloyd again — just a fraction of himself, of the boy he’d once been. He was fourteen, growing hopeless, starting to come to the harsh conclusion that he would never be something special, not like he had in John’s eyes. He was absolutely, positively useless.

With the sadness came the anger, and with the anger came the rage. He was so angry. So angry at his father, at the Oceanic Six, at everything that had happened in his life so far. His chest twisted and he clutched his hand over his face, trying to control his labored breathing. _Stop crying. Stop._ But he couldn’t. His body ached from the pain, though it wasn’t anything physical.

When he returned home, Grandma was already there. Walt willed himself to walk past her, to hide his face and pretend like everything was fine, but... it wasn’t. 

Walt needed to talk to one of the Oceanic Six. He needed someone to talk to. He needed a friend, someone who would listen to him and wouldn’t doubt his words or experience. Someone like John. So, Walt sidestepped into the living room, dropping his backpack on the floor and sliding into the couch next to Grandma. She smiled and turned her head to look at him, but it immediately dropped into concern. “Honey? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t return her gaze. Walt stared at the television screen, trying to figure out what to say. “I...” He shook his head slowly, beginning to tremble. “I’ve lied. Grandma. A lot.”

She said nothing.

The silence prompted him to continue. “And I know I have. But- but I need you to trust me for a minute. I need to see-” His breath hitched. “I need to see one of the Oceanic Six.”

Grandma furrowed her brows in confusion. She let her hand slide over Walt’s leg. “What do you mean? Why would you need to see one of them?”

He ripped himself out of her grasp, anger beginning to lap in his chest. He could feel the fire rising, rising, rising. “I know them. And I need to speak to one. I- I don’t know how I will, but if they know it’s me, then they’ll let me see them-”

“Baby! Slow down.” Grandma shook her head incredulously. “You aren’t making sense. You don’t know the Oceanic Six.”

“I _do_,” he stressed, screwing his eyes shut. Walt sighed, trying to calm himself down. “Look.... I’ll explain everything. I swear. Okay? Just- just let me see one of them. Please. I need to do this.”

There was a long thread of uncomfortable silence. Walt prickled and shifted in the seat of the couch, eyes flickering to the TV. Grandma opened and closed her mouth several times, clearly unsure of what to say or do. “Walt...” She followed his gaze to the screen. “If you’re sure. But I don’t know where any of them are, or if they’ll even remember you.”

“They’ll remember me,” he assured. Walt stared at the news. It talked about the car chase in 2006. A picture of Hurley flashed on the screen. He swallowed thickly, fingers curling. “And I know where we can go first.”

* * *

_November 24, 2007  
Los Angeles, California_

Walt slowly opened the door, staggering out into the dying sunlight. He closed his eyes and began to sob, fingers curling into his shoulders. He walked a few feet before stopping and sat on one of the benches. His gaze trailed to the sign: _Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute_. 

An overwhelming sadness came upon him. Walt shook with grief and desperately tried to understand why lying would protect everyone else on the Island. Was his father still alive? No. No, he was dead. But Hurley said there were others. They had to do something to help. They’d been stuck there? For three years? Doing what? Maybe they’d already died. 

“Baby?” A soft voice jerked Walt out of his thoughts and he lifted his head, blinking clouded eyes at his grandmother. She frowned and sat beside him, frowning deeply. “Baby.... you have to tell me what’s going on. Why did you speak to that crazy man?”

“He’s n-not crazy, Grandma.” Walt looked away.

“He’s in a psych ward, Walt. And he was the one involved in that police chase last year. I remember it.” She clicked her tongue. “I don’t know _how_ you were able to talk to him, or why he let you see him, or how you even _know_ that man, but I really would like to know.”

Walt’s tongue flicked out of his mouth. Wet his lips. Was this it? Was Grandma going to be the first one he told about the Island? But would telling her result in the deaths of the rest of the people back _on_ the Island? He shook his head and dropped his shoulders, wiping away the tears. “I don’t know how to explain, Grandma,” he whispered.

“Just try,” she urged quietly. A beat of silence spread between them. “I won’t judge you. If something happened, you can tell me.”

Walt inhaled raggedly, breath wrenching from his throat. He began to tremble, eyes watering once more. He hadn’t talked about the Island to anyone _alive_ since.... well, since Locke. Before that? His father. But his father was dead, and Locke was somewhere, doing whatever it was he did. But he had to try to explain. If he didn’t, Walt was afraid the weight of the secret would eat him away on the inside. “I...” He hesitated. “It’s hard to talk about. But- but when me and my dad came back, we lied. Kind of.”

“Lied? About what?” She seemed to come to a realization. “Wait. The plane crash...? In Asia?”

“Yeah.” Walt laughed, but it turned into a strangled cry. “Yeah, that.”

Grandma sighed. “Well?” she prompted. “If it wasn’t a plane crash, then what was it? I always did think that was a load of-”

“It was a plane crash,” he said quickly. “But- but just not there, not in Asia, we-” Walt desperately balled his hands into fists, beginning to sob. “Please, I don’t... I don’t know how to explain..”

“Baby. Hey. Shhh.” Grandma wrapped an arm around Walt’s back and pulled him into her embrace. “Just talk. I’ll listen and I won’t say anything. Would that be better?”

He nodded, controlling his breathing. _It’s fine. Just.... just talk. That can’t be hard._ And so he did. “W- well, after my mom died, Brian didn’t want me anymore, so my dad came to get me from Australia. We got on a plane, b- but it crashed on this island, and we had to survive.” Walt didn’t look at Grandma, didn’t dare try to find some kind of reaction. He just wanted to vent. “A- and it was good, at first. It was. I had Vincent, our dog, and my dad and things were nice and- and then I met Locke, but things started happening. Like, there were polar bears and a monster and these other people lived on the Island, and they kidnapped me after we got on a raft to leave, so my dad...” He trailed off. Some things were better left unsaid. “We got out on a boat. We landed on another island, and sold the boat and made it back to New York and then came and found you.” By the time he was done, Walt couldn’t breathe. 

Quiet. There was a moment of nothing but the sound of the wind and an aimless shout from inside the building. Then, Grandma leaned forward and kissed Walt’s forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. He looked at her and she was crying. “I had no idea. I... I don’t understand everything, but I- I get it now. _You_ were on that Oceanic flight. But didn’t they find it in the bottom of the ocean? Did you know the Oceanic Six?”

Walt shrugged. He didn’t know anything about a plane at the bottom of the ocean. “I knew them,” he instead answered, melting into his grandmother’s embrace. “Jack was like our leader. Kate was attached to his hip. I hung around Hurley sometimes — he was funny. I didn’t talk to Sayid much, but he was cool. Sun babysat me when my dad had to go on hunting trips, and Aaron...” He frowned. 

“Kate really had that baby on the island?” Grandma asked.

He shook his head. “No, everyone lied. There’s still people on the Island, people that didn’t make it back. Aaron was Claire’s baby, but... I don’t know where Claire is.” Walt hadn’t seen her show up yet. Maybe she was still alive, but that wasn’t likely. 

“Why did they lie?”

Walt laughed, but it wasn’t bitter or angry like before. He was calm. Controlled. Understanding, almost. “To protect the people left behind. Sawyer, Jin, Charlie, Claire...” He began to cry once more. “I wish I’d never left. I loved it there.”

Grandma paused before speaking. “But you can have a good life here. The Oceanic Six did it, right?”

Walt looked over at the Santa Rosa doors. “I don’t know about a good life, but...” He laughed and so did his grandmother. “It was a life I liked, living there. And Locke...” His heart twisted painfully in his chest. He hadn’t forgotten about the obituary he’d seen in the paper — _Jeremy Bentham, dead from suicide_ — but really didn’t want to think about it anymore. There was no way Locke was dead. Right..?

Grandma didn’t ask about Locke. She stood up and gripped Walt’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

_Home._ Walt stood up and took his grandmother’s arm, turning to look over the horizon. The sun was dipping below the skyline, dapples of orange and yellow sparkling over the pale blue sky. Walt wondered what the sunset looked like from the Island. But he would never return there, would he? New York City was his home now. Grandma was his home.

The only home he’d ever wanted was gone, and just like the dusk, he had to set his dreams behind and move on with his real life. Walt looked at Santa Rosa, thought about Hurley. _Goodbye, old friend._ Then, he turned and followed his grandmother, and all thoughts of _home_ were filled with images of New York City.

* * *

_March 12, 2008_

“Grandma?” Walt opened the front door to the house and closed it softly behind him. He looked around the house. Silence. Something worked tightly in his gut. “Grandma?” he tried again. No answer. Her car was here, though. Maybe she was asleep?

Surely.

Moving from the hallway into the kitchen, Walt spotted a shape slumped on the couch. He paused, considered, then stepped forward, smiling. “Hey, Grandma.”

No answer.

Walt crossed to her side, dropping his backpack and laying a hand on her shoulder. “Grandma?” Her head was leaned back, eyes half-open. Bile rose in his throat. “Grandma.” He shook her roughly. No response. Walt slapped her face. Nothing. He set his fingers on her skin and she was so, so cold, like she’d been submerged in an icy bath. His vision clouded with tears. “Grandma. N- no. No, no, no, no...” He sobbed softly, trying desperately to wake her.

Walt knew she was dead.

He flopped down next to her and wrapped his arms around her, but dead weight pulled her away. Walt instead nuzzled his head into the crook in her neck and cried, somehow not disgusted at the idea of cuddling with a dead person. Whirlwinds of thoughts plagued his mind. Why did everyone around him die? Was it something to do with him? What about when the police found her body? Did he even _call_ the police? What about his fake identity? Would they be able to tell it was falsified?

Everything became too heavy. Walt began to scream, wildly thrashing. “No! No! Fuck!” Tears glistened across his cheeks and he yelled for Grandma to return, to not leave him, to come back and stop joking. But she wasn’t joking. She was gone. Walt could feel it. _Maybe I could’ve helped her had I come home earlier._ But her skin was like ice. It must’ve happened after Walt left for school, and she wasn’t in her work clothes.

Pain gripped his heart so tightly he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to recover. Walt broke away from his grandmother and screamed again. It rubbed his throat raw. He suddenly couldn’t breathe, and Walt began to gasp in tightly, an anxiety attack submerging him into dark waters. Walt nearly fell to the ground, grasping at his chest, sliding away from Grandma. He looked around, hoping she’d appear in ghost form, but no such thing happened.

_It’s because I told her about the Island._ He pushed himself to the wall and cried into his palms, sliding to the ground. Walt’s legs splayed out beneath him and he sobbed. The Island had done this. _He’d_ done this.

He should’ve never visited Hurley. He should’ve never talked to Locke, back when he’d returned last year. It was stupid, and his recklessness had gotten his grandmother killed. Walt had heard about another flight — Ajira — crashing somewhere, and a leaked passenger list had showed that the Oceanic Six were on it. He wondered if they’d returned, and why they’d gone without him. Walt wondered if they’d done something to the Island to hurt his grandmother, or if any of them had returned, or if they were all dead. He didn’t know. He almost didn’t _want_ to know.

All Walt knew was that his grandmother was dead, and that it was very likely his fault. The anxiety attack was still present, growing ever-more dangerous, but Walt made sure to breathe. His hysterics had only risen and he wanted nothing more than to die, to be out of this house, to be out of New York. Walt had given up on the Island after his visit to Hurley in Santa Rosa, but...

No. That thought was stupid. He’d never return. His life was in shambles. All of his family was dead. Locke was dead.

Walt was alone.

He sat there for another half hour, staring at his grandmother, fingers twitching to life every few moments. It was like his own body was checking to make sure he was alive, but Walt hardly felt like it. His throat closed up and he gripped the wall, steering himself to his feet. Walt staggered over to Grandma and looked down at her, eyes watering. “Bye, Grandma,” he whispered, hoping that, wherever she was, she could hear. Walt stepped away from her and aimlessly wandered out the door.

His trek began.

Walt wasn’t sure where he was going. No where, really. His feet led him down sidewalks, streets bustling with people. It bothered him. No one acknowledged him, or understood his pain, or sympathized with the trauma he’d endured throughout his life. No one knew anything. He was nobody in the world — just Walt Lloyd. Someone who had presumably died long ago.

He’d died on the Island. That’s what it felt like, sometimes. Like he’d left a vital piece of his soul back there. _And I’m never going back._ He was fifteen and hopelessly alone. Walt couldn’t continue dwelling on the past like a child. If he wanted to be a man, he needed to move on. To forget about the Island. Act like it never existed.

But it _did_ exist. Somehow, the Oceanic Six had returned. If they could, surely Walt would be able to? _Wishful thinking._ He made his way through Times Square, looking up at the flashing lights and the ads and the people and the hustlers and the crazies. Maybe he was crazy. 

The sun had dipped below the skyline, spreading dull colors across the sky. Walt looked up and thought of his grandmother. Thought of how, once upon a time, five years ago, he would’ve looked at this sunset and thought, _I wish I could see this on the Island._ But Walt didn’t think that. He just wanted Grandma back. He wanted _someone_.

With the night brought terrors that others would flee from — maybe smart people, tourists who were afraid of being robbed — but Walt hardly cared. He enjoyed the breeze sifting through the buildings, the soft lights that pooled across apartments and workplaces. It was so beautiful he started to cry. A homeless man nearby noticed and silently offered a cigarette. Walt looked at him, looked at the cigarette, then took it between his fingers. He amused the idea of throwing it away, but thought, _fuck it. If I’m going to die tonight, maybe I should go all out._

So, thinking of the movies he’d seen, Walt pressed the cigarette to his lips and breathed in. He paused then blew out, coughing softly. It didn’t do much, but smoking was better than nothing, so Walt decided to continue. He strayed into the messier parts of New York, unsure of where exactly he was. Walt suddenly found that he didn’t care about anything. Part of him wanted to die, but the other didn’t. What did he choose? How _could_ he choose?

Suddenly, Walt really craved a Snickers.

He found a convenience store pretty quickly. He had a few wrinkled dollar bills in his pocket, so decided to pay for the candy and... well. Next was questionable, but Walt at least _had_ the plan to die. It was now or never. That being said, he paced the aisles, picking up a Snickers and inspecting it. ‘REBECCA’ the name said. He definitely wasn’t Rebecca. Turning on his heel, Walt slid the candy to the cashier. “Just this.”

The cashier eyed him. Blankets of darkness had layered the earth outside. Only street lights and the headlights of taxis illuminated the area. “Aren’t you a little young to be walking alone at night?”

Walt read his name tag. ‘Brandon.’

“Well, Brandon,” he sighed. It felt like his heart had shriveled up and died, leaving him with absolutely nothing inside. No emotion, no care, no sympathy. He was a black void. “I am fifteen.”

“You’re a baby!” Brandon smiled and yellow teeth flashed back. His hair was brown and unkept. “Wait ‘till you’re forty, then you’ll _really_ wish you were fifteen again.”

Walt wasn’t in the mood for talking, but it seemed his mouth was running anyway. “I’m leaving for a while. Not sure if I’ll make it to forty.”

The cashier raised a brow. “You runnin’ away or somethin’? I’m sure your momma’s worried about you.”

“My mom’s dead.”

“Oh. Your dad?”

“Dead.”

A pause. “Grandparents?”

Walt froze, fingers curling. He gulped, shaking. “Dead.” His voice came out wobbly and disassociated. “Just found her a- at home. She’s gone.”

There was silence. Walt tilted his head and observed Brandon’s wide-eyed, shocked stare. “J- Jesus, kid,” he stuttered. He slowly scanned the Snickers bar but didn’t hand it back. “Who are you staying with, then?”

Walt shrugged. “No one.”

“So... you’re just out here? All alone?”

“Yeah.” He kept his voice even, trying not to show his grief. His fear. 

“Man... you don’t... you have nowhere to go?” Brandon looked at him like he was an alien.

“No.” Walt’s voice lowered and he stared at the Snickers. He shoved three dollars over. “Keep the change.”

Brandon hesitated but eventually handed over the candy bar, face twisting slightly. He looked unsure of what to do. “Kid-” Walt stopped before he could turn around to walk out, blinking up at the man. “I can’t just let you leave. Maybe you could stay with me and my wife for the night. I- I wouldn’t mind. Then we can find you somewhere more permanent to stay.”

Walt wondered if this man was a pervert. He didn’t seem like it, and he didn’t get any sort of pedophile ‘vibe’, but he could never be too sure. Still.... he frowned, genuinely afraid that he wouldn’t go through with his plan before the end of the night. “I- I don’t know. I think I’m just gonna go.”

“Go _where_?” Brandon stressed. “Back home? I can drive you there after my shift ends.”

“A bridge.” Walt nearly slapped himself for being so honest, but it was true. Maybe a part of him wanted to be saved, to finally be cared for and understood by another person. His grandmother could no longer do that.

“Jesus!” Brandon’s hands began to shake. “Kid- I- I can’t- there’s no way I can let you leave after you tell me that. You can’t do that to yourself!”

“Says who?” Walt exploded. Something clouded his gaze and he realized it was built up tears. “I have no family. No friends. I might as well be dead!”

“Don’t _say_ that!” Brandon exclaimed. “Please. _Please_ let me take you back to our apartment. I need to make sure that you’re okay, that you don’t do anything to yourself.”

Walt’s heart crumpled. The anger flared away and was replaced by something worse. “Wh-” His voice wavered. “Why do you care?” A complete stranger was more worried for him than anyone else in Walt’s life ever had been. He genuinely had no idea how that worked.

“Because I was like you, once.” Brandon shook his head. “I had nothing to live for, I thought. So I asked a guy for drugs- to-” He hesitated. “To overdose, but he talked me down from it. A complete stranger. It changed my world. I got a job, found new opportunities. New York is full of them, kid. You meet hundreds of people. If I somehow got a wife...” He laughed. “Then you sure as hell can beat what’s going on now.”

The cashier’s words changed something inside of Walt. Still, he couldn’t let it show that he was buying into any of it. It was all a distraction. “Opportunities, huh?” Walt looked around the convenience store and scoffed. “Says you, who works _here_.”

Brandon smiled. “I own the store. It’s in a great place, really. Attracts a lot of people, especially during nighttime. That’s when I’m always on shift.”

Walt deflated. He stared at the man. _Why are you so nice? Why can’t you just tell me to piss off so I can kill myself already?_ He rubbed his face with his hand, closing his eyes. “Look,” he said slowly. “If I... if I come with you, then let me fly to LA. Tomorrow.”

Brandon frowned slightly but nodded anyway. “Okay. I can do that. Do you have family there? Friends?”

_Didn’t I just tell you I have none of those things?_ Walt decided to humor him either way. “Yeah. His name’s Santa Rosa.”

The cashier hummed in thought. He clearly didn’t understand, but that was okay. Walt hadn’t expected him to. “Well....” He looked at the clock. “We can leave now. Just- at least tell me your name?”

Walt hesitated. He thought of his father, his mother, his grandmother, Brian...

“Keith Johnson,” he whispered. “My name is Keith Johnson.”

* * *

_April 18, 2010_  
_Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute_  
_LA, California_

Walt had a visitor. That was new, considering he’d been going under a new name for the past two years. Life had been rough. After meeting Brandon so long ago, Walt had convinced he and his wife to send him on a plane to LA with some money. Once there, he tried out some jobs, but eventually landed in Santa Rosa.

It really wasn’t all that bad. Some people were weird, others shy, others aggressive, but Walt had nothing to worry about here. The money his father had earned on the freighter a few years back was keeping him inside. Thankfully. 

Two years inside brought all kinds of things to life, though. With his new alias, Walt finally admitted to one of the therapists his visions, his thoughts, the things he’d once seen on a day-to-day basis. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Took Clozapine now, which greatly reduced his suicidal thoughts. Didn’t do much for the dead people, though. Walt still said he was better.

And now he had a visitor. The last thing he’d expected was for it to be _Henry Gale._ That had seemed so long ago.... five and a half years and counting. Walt never stopped thinking about the Island in here, and some child-like aspect of him returned. Was he going back? Why was Henry Gale here? What had happened to everyone else after the Ajira airplane crashed?

Their conversation hadn’t been entirely modest or passive, but Walt found out that Henry Gale’s name was actually Ben Linus, and that he and someone else needed Walt’s help. _Help on the Island._ Just hearing those words fall from someone else’s tongue sent sparks of excitement through Walt’s chest. He could hardly contain his laughter, but made sure to suppress his laughs in the small of his throat. 

Yes. He would go. And Walt would soon find out that _Hurley_ needed his help, and that he was even working with _Ben_ (long story, apparently). Walt would also come to find out that his father, despite being confirmed dead from the freighter, could still be helped. He was on the Island, somehow, and Walt could help his father. 

And as the blue Volkswagen van peeled away from Santa Rosa, Walt looked back on the institute and thought about his life. Mother dead when he was just ten years old. Father dead at eleven. Grandmother dead at fifteen. Now Walt was seventeen years old, almost an adult, and the last six years of his life he’d spent waiting, wondering, considering. He’d been angry. He’d been grief-stricken. He’d been abandoned, forgotten, and shoved to the ground. 

But here he was, still alive, still wandering. Just as Charlie had said so long ago, _“It’s up to you whether or not you want to come back to the Island.”_ Perhaps losing everything had resulted in Walt finally being ready. And suddenly the word _home_ and _Island_ felt so natural, and all feelings of grief and anger and denial and fear pooled away. Walt was left with nothing but happiness, for what was almost the first time in his life. 

Walt thought about Michael. Thought about the last time he’d ever seen him in person through the window. He thought about his mother in her velvet jacket, saying, “Goodbye,” for the last time. He remembered his breakdown after discovering Grandma dead in the living room, of his sadness when he found out that Locke had committed suicide.

All of those things had led to this very moment. 

Walt looked back over Santa Rosa then turned. “Home.” He thought about the rainforest, the beach, the piles of storm clouds that covered the sky in thick sheets, even the polar bears and monster seemed appealing. Everything clicked into place, and for once in his life, Walt felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be. _I’m going back to the Island. It’s finally happening._

Walt was finally returning home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn’t cry i didn’t cry i didn’t cry I DIDN’T CRY OKAY- 
> 
> Jesus this was hard to write. Listening to the Lost soundtrack made it even more depressing. Just as the title represents, the amount of nostalgia I received from writing this was absolutely astounding. I wanted to recreate those thoughts and feelings and project them as Walt, so I hope that I did alright!
> 
> Anyway, here’s this. I’m proud of myself for finishing, and I’m happy to continue my exploration of the Lost AU. If you enjoyed, please leave kudos, bookmark, maybe even comment! It’ll make my day.
> 
> Love you guys. Thanks so much for checking this out, and stay tuned for any future works in this AU!


End file.
